


I Can't Decide If It's A Choice (Getting Swept Away)

by WritingSinsAndTragedies



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Deputy Derek, Deputy Derek Hale, Don't Judge Me, Hale fire still happened and Derek still feels guilty, Idiots in Love, M/M, No Smut, Oblivious!Derek, all angst, all fluff, but it is resolved through legal means, no werewolves though, pining!Stiles, pining!derek, sorry :(, sterek, sterek au, title and summary is crap but the rest of the story isnt i swear, underage is an issue in this fic, yes i used a taylor swift lyric as a title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 17:59:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3701425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingSinsAndTragedies/pseuds/WritingSinsAndTragedies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale thought he was trading a loud, rambunctious life in New York City for the quiet, boring scenery of his old small hometown, Beacon Hills. He turns out to be mistaken, however, when new challenges arise in his new supposed-to-be quiet life. Challenges all coming from the Sheriff's underage son that has lips of an angel's and hips like sin. Oh yeah, and did he mention he also works for said Sheriff? Yes, because this couldn't go anymore wrong for Derek Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can't Decide If It's A Choice (Getting Swept Away)

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sterek fic! Yeah, so I got this idea a few months ago and thought "Aw, it'd be short and sweet. Definitely under 5,000 words." As you can see, this fic did not go as planned. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! I know I sure did writing it.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own this Sourwolf/Abominable Snowman duo as well as all the other characters that appear in this story. Those belong to MTV and the creators and/or writers of Teen Wolf. I do not own this story's title, which pathetically came from the song "Treacherous" by Taylor Swift (which is a hella rad song, I'll fight you over it).

            Of all the ways Derek could be spending his Friday night on patrol, chasing a pair of gangly, scruffy teenagers that get their kicks by loitering at closed crime scenes isn’t the worst. Now, it isn’t the _best—_ that would be given the opportunity to sit peacefully in his police car with a steaming cup of coffee and try to figure out how to work that Kindle Fire Laura had gotten him as a going away present, but still, it’s better than dealing with staggering drunks or paranoid grandmas. At least it’s _interesting,_ and Derek would be thanking the kids for saving him from a night of boredom and monotony if he wasn’t so pissed off that they were literally _traipsing all over a crime scene._

            There’s two of the morons, and both are pretty fast runners. They could have even had a possibility of getting away if Derek was twenty years older and didn’t spend five days a week at the gym. They both zigzag in opposite directions, so Derek hones in on one of them, selecting one of the dark figures by random before quickening his pace and dodging each obstacle that the teenagers lead him through.

            It’s after the kid and his buddy slow down enough to hop over the fence when Derek is able to catch up with one of them, launching himself at one and pinning him to the ground. Derek softens the blow of his body as much as he can, but the teen still hisses and groans when he hits the cold dirt.

            Apparently, though, the breath isn’t completely knocked out of the kid because a second after he bites the dust, he chokes out, “Holy shit, I think a brick wall just fell on me. Scott, the buildings are caving in, _run.”_

            The other kid twists his head to yell out in concern, “Stiles—?” before he trips on his own feet and falls only ten feet away with a pained, “ _Ow.”_

            Derek huffs an amused chuckle and calls out, “You okay?”

            The other kid— _Scott,_ his friend had called him—raises his hand to give him a meager thumbs up in response. Stiles (really, is that even a _name?_ ) twists his head and makes a bewildered noise at the back of his throat, “Dude, that was _you?_ Jesus, are you on a strict diet of _cement_ or something?”

            Derek gives him a withering look that he probably can’t see in the veil of night as he pulls him up to his feet, instructing, “Hands behind your back.”

            Faintly, he can tell Stiles twists his features, “Aw, Man, don’t do that. We weren’t doing anything.” In response to Derek’s stoic silence, the teen does as he asks but then shouts sharply to his friend, “Scott, _run.”_

            “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Derek advises Scott casually, walking over to him once he’s done securing the handcuffs on Stiles, “You know, former occupation as a brick wall and all. Seems like an unnecessary inconvenience for both of us, doesn’t it?” Scott seems to agree since he rises to his feet but doesn’t make a break for it, shoulders slumped and head down-casted as Derek approaches him and slaps cuffs on his wrists.

            “So Boys,” Derek begins as he walks both of them to his police cruiser, “Mind telling me what you two were doing at the site where a man was just brutally attacked two nights ago?”

            “You mean that happened _here?”_ Stiles says with feigned disbelief before he tilts his head to the side and adds thoughtfully, “Huh, what a funny coincidence. Right, Scott?”

            Scott nods hurriedly, affirming, “Yeah… _weird.”_

            Derek sighs, “See, I don’t call that a ‘ _funny coincidence_.’ I call that ‘ _trespassing’_ at the very least, ‘ _interfering with a police investigation’_ at the most.”

            “Hey, you’re the new deputy, aren’t you?” Stiles says, ignoring Derek’s threat, “All the way from NYC?”

            Derek stiffens at the comment and briskly replies, “Word travels fast in this town, doesn’t it?” He gives neither of them a chance to answer, instead continuing, “Anyway, back to my first question: what were you doing here?”

            Stiles opens his mouth before shutting it a second later, the gears obviously churning in his head as he wracks his brain for a convincing lie. By that time, they finally reach the cruiser, and Derek can now see their faces clearly. They’re both what Derek expected: gawky, fresh-faced teenagers only barely over the last stages of puberty.

            Apparently, though, Derek wasn’t what they—particularly Stiles—expected.

            “Dude, what the hell are you doing arresting us?” Stiles demands in a scoff, “Go back to your Abercrombie photo shoot gig and leave me and my friend alone.”

            Derek rolls his eyes and doesn’t deem the question worthy of a response, simply ordering, “Get in the car, Gentlemen. I’m taking you to the station.” Casting significant looks to both of them, he adds, “And if either of you tell me the truth before we reach the parking lot, I might drop all charges and just let you call your parents to come pick you up.” Of course, he’s not really planning on pressing any charges anyway—he was a teenager once, too, and the general nature of curiosity and astounding lack of impulse control already explains why they were there—but still, he wants to make sure they weren’t up to anything _really_ illegal that wouldn’t have ended with just a slap on the wrist (and okay, maybe he’s taking a _little_ joy out of watching them squirm; just a little).

            “Well, as it so happens, we were planning on telling you anyway, Officer,” Stiles says, giving him a bright, fake smile, “You see, my friend Scott here…” He glances over at the boy in question next to him in the backseat, “He’s…asthmatic.” Scott gives him a curious sideways glance, but Stiles keeps his gaze trained firmly on Derek, his face giving nothing away except pure guts (and stupidity, of course, but Derek thinks that’s just his face).

            “Yeah,” Derek prompts, crossing his arms over his chest and pretending not to notice how Stiles’ eyes linger on his muscular frame after the motion, “And?”

            “And he lost his inhaler here earlier—in broad daylight, _before_ the attack. He only realized this tonight, so we went out to get it.” Stiles finishes, flashing him another one of his cocky grins.

            “Why had you two been there then,” Derek interrogates further, closing the car door in Stiles’ face and getting into the driver’s side, “In broad daylight, before the attack?”

            “Fieldtrip.” Scott answers quickly, “A week ago. For Econ.”

            Derek glances at them from the mirror as he starts the engine, “You went to an abandoned warehouse known as Beacon Hill’s hotspot for illegal activity…for Econ?”

            “You don’t know Finstock. He’s insane.” Stiles backs Scott up loyally with a chuckle, though Derek can see him shooting a glance of _Really?_ at the other boy, “He took us to the deli one time because he forgot his lunch.”

            Derek sighs and shakes his head, pulling out on the highway, “We’ll see if that story checks out soon, Boys.”

            The rest of the ride is silent, except for when Derek asks, only as they’re pulling into the station parking lot, “Well, did you find it?”

            Scott and Stiles both give him confused looks, asking, “Find what?”

            A corner of his lip twitches, but other than that, his voice and expression remains stoic and serious as he clarifies, “The inhaler.”

* * *

 

            “Wrangled in some real criminal masterminds here.” Derek announces sarcastically as he guides the boys through the station to the bench, somehow missing the exasperated and fond looks casted at the two.

            Stiles cracks a smile at the other officers and even says, “Hey, Parrish. How’s it going?” to one of the deputies.

            Parrish shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips as he replies dryly, “Obviously better now that you’re here.”

            Derek raises an eyebrow at the exchange, but Parrish just shrugs and goes back to clicking away at his computer. _Must be a regular,_ Derek deduces and can’t say he’s all that surprised. Stiles, although scrawny and generally looking as defenseless as a baby rabbit, seems like the type to get into mischief more times than not, with his cocky attitude and reckless behavior. Derek feels pity for the unlucky parents that got shackled with that kid.

            “There,” Derek says, uncuffing the two and gesturing to the phone on the wall opposite of them, “Go call your parents and have them pick you up.”

            “Are you sure that’s necessary?” Stiles says as Scott deflates in his seat, “Look, my dad can just give both of us a—“

            “Your friend’s not getting off the hook just because this was probably all your idea,” Derek affirms, “You both did the crime, so you both get in trouble.”

            Stiles glares at him but Scott clasps his friend on the back and mutters, “It’s alright, Man. Not your fault. She’s not on the night-shift this week anyway.”

            As Scott dials the number, Derek motions to the phone on his own desk, saying, “Here, you can use this one.”

            Stiles stops his pouting and gives him a confused look, “Use it for what?”

            Exasperation carved into his expression, Derek explains slowly, “Call your folks. I don’t care what time it is, you should’ve thought of that before—“

            “Why would I _call_ my dad?” Stiles inquires, and Derek doesn’t know if he’s asking this to personally annoy him, but it’s working because—

            “Stiles?” The Sheriff’s voice, holding both puzzlement and irritation, echoes from the front of the station, and Stiles immediately stills in his seat.

            He must get in trouble a lot if even the Sheriff has had run-ins with him…

            Stiles gives the Sheriff a tight, guilty smile, “Hey, Dad. Look, I can explain…” But by then, Derek’s brain has completely short-circuited because _Dad?_ You’ve got to be _kidding._

            Derek’s first official arrest in Beacon Hills, and it’s the Sheriff’s own kid.

            The Sheriff pins Stiles with a heated, disappointed glare, “Please tell me this isn’t about the case that I _specifically_ told you to stay out of.“

            Stiles bites his lip, his voice softening, “Dad, listen, Scott and I were only looking…”

            “You got Scott involved, too?” The Sheriff demands before rubbing his jaw and muttering to himself, “Why am I not surprised?” When his gaze finally lands on Scott, who has the phone already pressed to his ear, he says, “Scott, tell Melissa I’m taking you home.”

            Scott smiles softly at him, saying sincerely, “Thanks.”

            The Sheriff sighs and turns his attention to the station of officers, asking, “Okay, who dragged them in this time?”

            “That’d be Mr. New York.” One of the officers that Derek hadn’t learned the name of yet says with a smug smile.

            Derek clenches his jaw as he plows in, “Sir, I didn’t—“

            The Sheriff raises a hand to stop him, smiling kindly and saying, “It’s fine, Hale. To tell you the truth, I’m embarrassed you had to meet my son this way.”

            “What, were you going to introduce us over coffee?” Stiles teases with a smirk, but his voice has lost all arrogance and sass. It’s more hesitant now, more resigned and respectful towards his father.

            The Sheriff rolls his eyes, his lips curling into a reluctant smile as he says sternly, “No, I think he’s a little too old for you, Stiles.” Derek averts his gaze and misses the way a flush rises up Stiles’ neck.

            When Scott hangs up, the Sheriff sighs and declares, “Come on, Boys, you have a morning of community service ahead of you.” The two share a groan as they slump out the station with him, Derek only catching Stiles’ eager “But Dad, listen, I got a new theory…” before the door closes behind them.

            The station is quiet before Derek wonders, accidentally out loud, “His name is really _Stiles Stilinski?”_

            For some reason, this gathers a rouse of chuckles among the officers, and finally all tension bleeds from Derek’s shoulders.

* * *

 

            After the incident, Derek doesn’t speak to Stiles for two weeks, only seeing him in passing at the station or when he’s patrolling the streets (it’s a small town, after all. He probably has seen him around before and the kid had just never made a lasting impression until now). However, the next time they interact, it’s apparently all Derek’s fault.

_Of course._

            Despite Stiles’ claim that it’s an intricate, dastardly plot of evil genius, what Derek actually does is fleeting and innocent, really. He’s about to go out to get something to eat for his break when the Sheriff looks around and sighs in disappointment, his shoulders sagging as some realization dawns on him. Derek raises an eyebrow and asks, “Alright, Sheriff?”

            Sheriff Stilinski gives him a thin-lipped smile and admits with a shrug, “Stiles forgot to pack my lunch. He must’ve woke up late and it slipped his mind.” He adds lowly, as if to himself, “I hope he remembered to take his medication though.”

            Derek clears his throat and says, “Hey, I’m going out to get something for myself right now. You want anything?”

            The Sheriff smiles and slaps him on the back, “Thanks, Hale. That’d be real nice of you.”

            Derek shrugs off his gratitude and asks, “What can I get you?”             “If it doesn’t trouble you, I’ll have a…” He sighs, continuing reluctantly,”…fruit salad and lean turkey sub on whole grain bread.”

            He gives the answer almost as if against his will, so Derek presses, “You sure? I’m stopping by a diner across the street from the deli, if you want something else.”

            The Sheriff replies hesitantly, “Well, since you’re already going there…I’ll have,” He looks around suspiciously, even though only the two of them are in his office, before saying lowly, “A dressed cheeseburger with a small order of curly fries.” He says it like it’s confidential, a secret that should only be shared in stinted whispers. Sure, it’s more than a little strange, but Derek doesn’t call him out on it—simply shrugging and replying vaguely puzzled, “Uh, okay.”

He turns to leave only to hear the Sheriff hiss urgently, “Hale! Listen, let’s keep my order just between us, okay? No one has to know.”

            After a pause of bewilderment, Derek nods slowly, trying not to stare at his boss like he just grew another head, “…Okay, got it.”

            The Sheriff smiles widely at him, “You’re a good man, Derek. Your lunch is on me.”

            Derek tries to refuse such a ludicrous offer ( _“It’s no trouble, Sir. Honestly.”_ ), but the Sheriff insists adamantly. A day later, he understands why.

            Derek is at his desk, going over all the evidence to make sure it coordinates with the Sheriff’s new theory (“ _I got fresh insight from a…reliable source.”)_ on the attack, when Stiles bursts through the door, holding what looks like garbage in his hand and shouting, “Okay, who did it: Who’s gunning for Sheriff’s position and tryin’ to put him in an early grave?” He narrows his eyes at the officers, his amber eyes burning with a surprising amount of intensity.

            Derek furrows his brow and looks around, only to find his fellow officers pausing in their duties to give this _kid_ their full attention. Can’t say being the boss’s son doesn’t have its perks, like actually getting humored among busy officers of the law.

            “What are talking about, Stiles?” One of them asks.

            Stiles flails the piece of trash as if in explanation, “I found _this_ in the wastebasket of my dad’s office. Now, I have spies in certain places, and I _know_ he didn’t purchase this himself, _so_ one of you must’ve done it for him.”

            Derek arches an unimpressed eyebrow and leans back in his chair, speaking out, “What, get him lunch? I did.”

            Stiles’ head jerks to him so fast, Derek wonders how he didn’t hear a loud _click,_ and he pins him with a scandalized expression, “ _Derek,_ I know you and I are now unofficial arch-nemeses, but I _thought_ you would never stoop as low as to try to take out my old man just to get to me!”

            Derek simply stares at him for a few seconds, just to make sure the kid isn’t joking around with him right now. But nope, he’s serious, why wouldn’t he be? Everything else is ridiculous about him. Of course he talks like this all the time. Eventually, Derek just sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, trying to remind himself that he can’t lose his temper on Stilinski’s kid.

No matter how difficult it is to keep his voice at an even volume, he manages to explain calmly, “Okay, first of all, I’m not your _arch-nemesis._ People don’t have those outside of comic books, Stiles. _Seriously,_ grow up.” Stiles seems offended and on the verge of a retort, but Derek continues without missing a beat, “ _Second of all,_ I was just trying to do something nice for your dad. I didn’t know he was on some _diet_ or whatever.”

            Stiles scoffs and smiles sourly at him, biting out in a light, airy voice, “Well, hate to burst your bubble, Derek, but not everyone can eat what they want and still have muscles the size of hand grenades.”

            “Yes, I was born this way,” Derek deadpans, barely suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, “I only go to the gym five times a week for appearance’s sake.”

            A retort seems just about to tumble from Stiles’ lips when Derek’s words process in his mind as he inquires with a furrowed brow, “Dude, really, _five_ times? But you’re a _cop._ How do you even find the time for that?”

            Derek sighs and glances up at the ceiling with pure exasperation, asking curtly, “There was a point to this conversation once upon a time, yes?”

            “Yeah, the point is don’t feed my dad trash like this.He doesn’t need it. What he _needs_ is proper nutrition.”

            “Sorry,” Derek finally concedes, raising his hands in mock-surrender, “Message received. Are we done?” Stiles lets out a long exhale and gives a tight nod. Satisfied, Derek puts his focus back on his work, losing himself in the collection of witness accounts and as many links and theories they could come up with. It isn’t until he feels hands press down on the back of his chair and someone lean over him when Derek’s concentration is successfully broken yet again.

            “Hey, still workin’ on that case?” Stiles— _of course_ it’s Stiles—asks casually, his breath tickling the top of Derek’s head.

            Derek leans away and tries to cover up the confidential files, correcting wryly, “Nope, still trying to find your friend’s inhaler.”

            Stealing a glance, Derek looks just as a corner of Stiles’ mouth quirks upward, “Yeah, obviously. It’s top priority, isn’t it? Those things don’t come cheap, you know.”

            “Yeah, close to like fifty bucks a pop for a good one.” Derek agrees and, feeling Stiles’ inquisitive gaze, adds in clarification, “My sister had asthma.”

            Stiles tilts his head at _had,_ asking, “She grow out of it?”

            And just like that, all humor and light-heartedness bleeds out of his expression. Derek keeps his gaze trained on his desk, trying to ignore how the perpetual dull ache in his chest throbs back to life at the painful reminder, “No, she died.”

            A pause, as predicted, “Oh.” He waits for the hollow _“I’m sorry,”_ but it never comes. He turns his head only to find Stiles staring at him intently, his eyes scanning Derek’s stony expression like it was a puzzle begging to be solved. _He’s got some big eyes,_ Derek notes idly, _and a big mouth, too_. He doesn’t know why he’s struck with these thoughts when he should be wondering what the hell Stiles is looking at or, better yet, _asking_ him what the hell he’s looking at. He opens his mouth to say him just that when Parrish clears his throat loudly, saying pointedly, _“_ Heads up, _Sheriff’s_ coming.”

Immediately, Stiles glances away and takes at least three feet back. Derek doesn’t have the chance to ask why exactly since the Sheriff is already saying, “Hey, Stiles. What’re you doing here, Kid?“ Stiles just lifts up the cheeseburger wrapper and empty carton of fries in response, and the Sheriff’s friendly expression turns to complete and utter _guilt._

            He throws up his hands, “What can I say? I’m _weak.”_

            “Malnourished, more like.” Derek can’t help but mutter, accidentally slipping into a crooked smile when Stiles punches him on the shoulder (Derek barely even registers it, to be quite honest) and the Sheriff grins with some sort of victory.

            “Damn, did you even feel that?” Stiles demands, flexing his hand and grimacing, “’Cause my hand sure did.”

            “Go away, Stiles.” Derek tells him with an eye roll, turning his chair back to face his desk.

            “Yeah, leave my squad to their work.” The Sheriff tells him as he practically herds his son to his office. As soon as the door closes behind them, Parrish leans in and gives Derek a long, stern look.

            When just ignoring him reveals to be unsuccessful, Derek cocks an eyebrow, demanding, “Can I help you?”

            “He’s seventeen, you know,” Parrish says, as if the piece of information is significant, “Still in _high school.”_

            Derek creases his forehead, “Who?”

            “Stiles.”

            “Okay,” He says slowly, still not quite getting why that’s so important, “And?”

            “Nothing,” Parrish says as he leans back in his own chair and shrugs, “Just sayin’ in case you needed a reminder.”

            Derek sends him a puzzled glance before going back to the task at hand. Unbeknownst to him, a pair of brown eyes watch him diligently through the window of the Sheriff’s office.

* * *

 

            “How’s Beacon Hills?” His sister Laura asks when Derek calls her later that night.

            “The same, mostly,” He answers with a shrug, “Did you know Stilinski had a kid?”

            “No,” Laura says, pausing to add, “Why?”

            Derek stares up at the ceiling of his loft and wracks his brain for a reason as to why he even brought that up. Finally, all he comes up with is, “He’s a pain in the ass.”

            “Yeah, well, so are you,” Laura responds lightly, “Your point?”

            “I hate you,” Derek gripes, “Why do I still talk to you anyway? I don’t even live with you anymore.”

            “You’re lonely,” Laura points out obnoxiously with what Derek can imagine is her usual shark-like smile, “You can only have so much conversations with your punching bag before you finally crack.”

            Derek takes her teasing with his usual onslaught of stale come-backs and ignores the annoying fact that she’s right.

* * *

 

            It’s not like Derek doesn’t have friends, per say. He has a few at the station (the closest of which is Parrish, even though he always gives him a warning look and vague remark every time he so much as glances at Stiles); the odd trio of young twenty-somethings that lounge at his loft sometimes and raid his fridge in between verbally prodding him; he even vaguely flirts with Jennifer Blake every time she speeds on the high-way when she’s late for classes.

            So Derek really does have regular human interaction, despite what Laura may claim. Sure, stinted, mostly-awkward interaction, but it counts nonetheless.

            He doesn’t know why, however, any and all interaction with Stiles always seems to make a lasting impression.

            He’s not that remarkable really, appearance wise. Sure, he’s not ugly—not with that soft, milk-white skin and those glowing amber eyes—but he’s not necessarily America’s Next Top Model either. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s practically the most annoying person throughout the entire history of mankind, with his talk-a-mile-a-minute speech and off the wall personality. Or maybe, if Derek ever let himself consider it without immediately beating that thought to a pulp, he just actually _likes_ the kid. Which seems to be quite impossible when you first meet Stiles Stilinski, up until the point he inevitably gets under your skin with his coy smiles and bizarre mannerisms.

            The next time they actually have an honest-to-God conversation that isn’t just Stiles rambling and Derek studiously ignoring him (or trying to, more like) is on Derek’s day off. He’s lounging casually at a table of Beacon’s local coffee shop (the town’s not big enough to have a Starbucks, and that was one of the features that made Laura ultimately not move with him and stay in New York, something he’s grateful for to this day), sipping on his chilled beverage as he waits for Isaac. The kid practically lives with him at this point since he has no family in town nor enough money to afford an apartment on his own (not with that pathetic job at the vet’s). He, along with the quirky couple of Erica and Boyd, have become Derek’s closest friends at Beacon Hills and almost spend more time at his loft than he does.

 _Seven minutes late,_ Derek observes smugly to himself after his eyes flicker to the clock, _three more and he gets stuck with the bill._ It’s a system they developed early on in their friendship, and usually it’s Derek who has to fork up the cash (being a cop in a small police force usually means you work more overtime than you’re happy with). He’s so wrapped up in stewing in his pot of satisfaction that he doesn’t register the chime that signals a new customer arriving nor the familiar sound of annoyingly squeaky tennis shoes.

            “Derek?”

            Okay, so maybe Derek isn’t as lucky as he had originally thought.

            Derek sighs and turns to find Stiles sizing him up with a tight, unreadable expression before, noticing Derek has finally met his gaze, his face turns into a bright beam. He orders his coffee and then flounces over to his table, nodding his head to indicate the seat opposite of him, “This seat taken, other than by your imaginary coffee date?”

            Derek sighs—Isaac probably forgot anyway, and he doesn’t want to drink alone. That’s the only reason he shakes his head and watches Stiles flop into the chair, somehow accomplishing to not spill a drop of his coffee.

            Derek eyes his sugary beverage with disapproval, quipping, “I’m surprised anyone in this town is willing to give you _coffee.”_

            “It’s a nice balance with the Adderall,” Stiles says with an easy grin, “Besides, I’m on the last legs of my high school career. I need all the help I can get to make it through the home stretch.

            “So,” He adds, changing the subject as his gaze slides to Derek’s jacket, “A leather jacket, huh? Isn’t that a little too cliché for you, Hale?”

            Derek shrugs, “It was good enough for James Dean.”

            “And he’s the biggest freaking cliché of bad boys.” He points out before slowly arching an eyebrow, his voice dropping an octave as he continues, “Are a bad boy, Derek Hale?”

            Instantly, Derek has the sudden desire to hear that drop of tone somewhere else. Like maybe in the backseat of the Camaro—

_No, bad brain! He’s seventeen, you pervert. Give me a break._

            Ignoring the stir in his lower half, Derek smirks and replies just as lowly, “Ask me when you’re older, Kid.”

            And well, that isn’t the reply he wanted to say (that sounded more like an _encouragement_ instead of a jest), but it already came out so he can’t take it back now. Instead, he watches as a blush paints that pale skin and his mouth drop into a perfect “O” of shock. And okay, maybe he’s gone too far. It’s a kid— _the Sheriff’s kid_ to make it worse.

            So Derek clears his throat and says, “So how’s school?”

            Stiles seems to break out of his trance when he groans, throwing his head back dramatically, “Mr. Harris is the incarnate of Satan; or at least his really weird, cruel uncle.”

            Derek half-smiles at the name and nods, “Yeah, he wasn’t the best, but he liked me well enough.”

            Stiles’ eyebrows shoot to his hairline, “How did you know him?”

            “I had him when I went to high school here.” Derek says because well, _obviously._

            “You went to school here?” Stiles repeats, and now his cluelessness is kinda getting annoying but Derek deals with it like always with much exasperation, “Wait, you lived here? Like as a kid?”

            Derek sighs, answering tiredly, “Yes, Stiles. I spent most of my childhood here.”

            “Why’d you move?” Stiles asks before adding, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Beacon Hills isn’t the most glamorous setting but usually you know, you—“

            “There was an…accident,” _Not an accident but no one will believe me,_ “Laura and I were the only ones left, other than our uncle Peter but he was rendered brain dead.” _My fault, my fault, my fault—_

            Stiles nods and gives him a soft, sad smile, and it chases away the guilt screaming in his ears and grief clenching his heart.

            “Loss hurts like a bitch,” Stiles says, dropping his gaze as bitter understanding sours his smile, “But it’s got _nothing_ on the guilt.”

            Derek’s hands clench, and that’s when the bell chimes again and Isaac’s apologetic voice rushes to their ears and the breaks the moment, “So sorry, Derek. Scott was late, and—“ Isaac stops abruptly when his gaze falls to Stiles and his brow furrows in bewilderment.

            “Uh, hey Stilinksi.”

            The sad, fragile boy is gone the moment Isaac appears at their table, replaced by the upbeat, grinning fool everyone knows him as, “’Sup, Lahey.” The smile Stiles gives him would be warm if it wasn’t for the indifference in his eyes, and Derek suspects the two aren’t the best of friends.

            “Well, this has been a _great_ chat,” Stiles says, downing the rest of his drink and standing up, “But I gotta go. I’m meeting Lydia at the library in,” He looks at the clock and pales, “Shit, _five minutes,_ _I gotta run.”_ The sheer thought of standing up this _Lydia_ for even a minute sends the boy flying out of the coffee shop, yelling out a string of goodbyes before the door closes behind him.

            Derek watches him until he disappears out of sight before turning his attention back of his friend, who’s staring at him with a perplexed, slightly disgusted expression.

            Derek tenses and barks, “What?”

            “Since when are you besties with Stiles?” Isaac asks, slipping into the seat vacated by the boy in question, “I thought you hated the kid.”

            “I do,” Derek replies perhaps too defensively than he means, “I can barely stand him.”

            A corner of Isaac’s mouth quirks into a knowing smirk, “Didn’t look it to me. In fact…” The rest of his sentence dies on his lips under Derek’s piercing glare.

            Isaac huffs a laugh at Derek, musing, “Seriously, Derek? I mean, Scott I would understand, but _Stiles?”_

“We’re not talking about this anymore,” Derek says, or more like _orders,_ waving dismissively at his friend, “Now go get yourself a coffee and me a muffin. You’re paying.”

            Isaac’s face is bewildered yet thoughtful as he waits in line, and Derek knows he’ll be hearing from Erica later tonight.

* * *

 

            It seems no matter where he goes ( _goes,_ not hides; shut up, Erica), Stiles is always somewhere in that vicinity and strikes up a conversation with him every time (“We’ve _got_ to stop meeting like this.” “Stiles, we’re in the men’s bathroom. Now’s not the time to chat.”). And if it isn’t Stiles, it’s the Sheriff, which is somehow even worse. He used to adore the Sheriff (still does, don’t get him wrong), but now he feels awkward and paranoid around him, like he’s done something _wrong_ when probably becoming reluctant friends with his son is smiled upon rather than frowned.

            The Sheriff, though, is oblivious, to both his new deputy’s and son’s increasing bizarre behavior. One day, early in the morning, when Derek has clocked out (along with the Sheriff), the man is adamant about having a friendly chat as they walk to their separate cars, “Gonna hit the hay, Hale?”

            Derek shrugs, “I had a pretty long nap yesterday before my shift, so I’m not really tired. Just hungry.” The confession is punctuated by an embarrassing moan from his abdomen, and Stilinski laughs.

            “Tell you what, come home with me,” The Sheriff says, smiling, “It’s Saturday, so Stiles is home now cooking breakfast. He makes enough for one more.”

            Derek shifts his weight from foot to foot, uneasy, “I don’t know if that’s considered pro…”

            “Screw professionalism, Hale,” Stilinski informs him with a laugh, clasping Derek on the back, “You’re in a small town. We all know each other too well for it.”

            And well, who can say no to Sheriff Stilinski? Derek sure can’t.

* * *

 

            “You’re even coming on Cheat Day,” The Sheriff says as they walk up his driveway, “So Stiles is cooking the goods stuff.”

            “What’s Cheat Day?” Derek asks.

            “Well, with Stiles always griping on me about eating right, I made him promise one day every three months, I have a Cheat Day.” He explains, “Bacon, burgers, fries, you name it. It’s Paradise.”

            Derek smirks, “Yeah, he’s weird about that.” At the Sheriff’s arched eyebrow, Derek quickly explains, “He found out it was me who had unknowingly smuggled you in some forbidden food.”

            Stilinski winces in sympathy, “Sorry about that. He’s been on a health kick for awhile now. Ever since Claudia died…” He stops talking abruptly, and Derek pretends not to notice.

            “Stiles?” The Sheriff calls as he enters the house and presumably heads for the kitchen, Derek following him wordlessly with more than a little discomfort in his stomach. However, all uneasy feeling falls away when Derek spots Stiles standing over the oven with nothing on except a pair of boxers and faded batman tee-shirt.

            “So I had another dream about that purple toad—” Stiles begins with a yawn but abruptly cuts off when he catches sight of Derek, who is forcing himself to not stare at his exposed legs and collarbone where the shirt has sagged. Stiles makes some sort of squeaking noise that makes Derek’s tightly pressed lips twitch into an amused half-smirk and Sheriff’s brow to quirk.

            “Thanks for the heads up, Dad.” Stiles practically bites out, pink dusting his cheeks.

            “Sorry, Stiles, I didn’t…” The Sheriff starts to apologize but his son has already muttered something about _“making myself decent for company”_ and flew up the stairs to, Derek suspects, his bedroom. It isn’t until then does Derek releases the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

            “My bad,” Stilinksi sighs out with an embarrassed smile, “I forgot about his,” He gestures wildly at Derek, “You know, on you.”

            Derek doesn’t respond and simply takes Stiles’ place monitoring the bacon frying until he hears the boy thundering down the stairs. He feels a sharp jab strike his side and fights to not release a surprised laugh as Stiles grumbles, “Out of my way, Bitch.”

            Derek, unable to help himself, glances down at Stiles’ batman pajama bottoms (surprise, surprise) and smirks. Stiles narrows his eyes at him, stirring the bacon until it’s a healthy crisp and then emptying it to join the rest of the platter, “Got something to say, Hale?”

            “I’m just not surprised at your,” He flicks his eyes downward at his clothes before meeting his gaze again, “Interesting choice of sleeping attire. What are you, ten?”  

            Stiles leans in and says lowly, so his dad won’t hear, “You’ve imagined me in my sleeping attire before, Derek? Well, I hate to say I’m not all that surprised myself.”

            Derek doesn’t reply and simply walking over to the table to join the Sheriff, throwing Stiles a dirty look over his shoulder that makes Stiles’ coy smirk widen even further.

* * *

 

            "He _saw_ me, Scott. In my old, ratty _underwear._ Do you not understand how mortifying that was?”

            “So what? I’ve seen you in your underwear and even _less_ more times than _I’m_ comfortable with.”

            “That’s different! You’re not built like a brick house and have a chiseled jaw that would make angels weep.”

            “…Stiles, do you think you maybe—?”

            “Shut up. No, I don’t. He’s _old,_ and mean, and grouchy, and maybe a little witty, and smart, and _stupidly, unfairly_ attractive…”

            “So, wait a minute: I’m not allowed to ‘spout sonnets about Allison and her dimples,’ but _you’re_ allowed to—

            Hello? Stiles? You did _not_ just hang up on me.”

* * *

 

            So they continue this game, and it only stops being fun when Stiles asks for a ride just as Derek is conveniently finished with his shift.

            “Where are we even going?” Derek asks, not giving Stiles’ more-than-usual-fidgeting as much consideration as he should have, in hindsight.

            “It’s a surprise,” Stiles snaps, body practically humming with nervous energy as he immediately adds, “Turn right on this next intersection.”

            The “surprise” leads them to an abandoned field five minutes out of town, the sun drowning in the horizon and casting the sky in a light orange glow. Derek parks the car, but Stiles throws himself forward and kisses the question off his lips. And Derek…Derek is too petrified to move, and when he eventually does move, it isn’t to push Stiles away like it should be. Instead, he parts his lips for Stiles’ tongue to viciously attack, his hand coming up to grasp Stiles’ jaw as he easily takes control. Stiles doesn’t taste of temptation and sin as Derek had (reluctantly) imagined. He just tastes like Mountain Dew and eagerness and _Stiles._ Once he starts reciprocating, the younger boy’s body uncoils and sags with relief, sighing into the kiss like there’s not a place in this world that he’d rather be.

            And that’s when it hits Derek—he’s not just kissing Stiles, he’s kissing a _teenager,_ who isn’t even _legal_ yet. This huge realization causes Derek to break the kiss, growling as Stiles reflexively tries to chase after his lips once he pulls back.

            “Stiles, no,” Derek grounds out, gently pushing the boy away from him and back into the passenger seat, “Stop. We—We can’t.”

            Stiles’ blissed out expression soon drops in disappointment and confusion, “W-What? But I thought— _Why?”_

            “You’re a _child.”_ Derek reminds him in frustration, resisting the urge to grab ahold of his stupid red hoodie and connect their lips once more.

            At his words, his face sharpens with anger and stubbornness, “No, I’m _not._ I’m turning eighteen in _three weeks._ Graduating high school in _four.”_

            “That doesn’t matter, Stiles. You’re still seventeen, and I’m still twenty-three. In the law’s eyes, you are still a minor, and I’d be taking advantage of you.”

            “What about in _your_ eyes?” Stiles asks softly, “Am I _just_ a minor to you?”

            “No, of course not,” At the spark of hope that shines in the younger man’s eyes, Derek swallows hard, lying, “You’re also the Sheriff’s son.”

            Stiles’ vulnerable expression twists into something Derek’s never seen before—something cold and dark and distant like Derek was nothing but an unfortunate acquaintance.

            “Take me home.” He demands in a growl, turning his head away to look stubbornly out the window.

            Derek sighs, his chest aching, and puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, “Stiles—“

            “I said _take me home,”_ Stiles snaps before sneering, _“Officer_ Hale.”

            Derek clenches his jaw and yanks back his arm as if he’d been burned, replying coldly with a voice that wavers only _slightly,_ “Of course. It’s almost past your curfew, isn’t it?” And it’s mean, and Derek wants to take back those words the second he says them.

            Stiles doesn’t respond or even _look_ at him, just keeps his face turned and mouth closed the whole trip back to his house. When Derek parks the Camaro in the Stilinski driveway, he opens his mouth to utter out an apology he’s been carefully putting together the whole ride only to have Stiles fly out of the car and slam the door loud and rough in his face, running into his house and doing the same to his own front door.

            Derek hesitates before putting the car back into gear and driving away, the pain in his heart not lessening despite how many miles he puts between them.

* * *

 

            Apparently him “doing the right thing” has made him public enemy number one with the teenagers of Beacon Hills. Scott screams his head off at him every time he so much as catches a glance of Derek while a pretty girl who identifies herself as Lydia Martin has twice now sought him out just to say that she will personally ensure his public humiliation and downfall when he least expects it (which yeah, he now understands Stiles’ behavior at the coffee shop because that woman is even more terrifying than Laura when she gets angry). He has also found arrows in all four (now flat) tires of his car, courtesy of who he’s guessing is Allison Argent. Hell, even Jackson Whittemore, the “stupid, conceited douchebag” Stiles occasionally ranted about who was also scared shitless of Derek, is not playing nice—spray-painting “Pervert” and “Asshole” on the side of his Camaro and refusing to take credit for it even to his friends _(“I don’t care about Stilinski’s pathetic tragic love story_ ,” He adamantly insists but Lydia has already caught him with spray-painted stained hands before he’d had the chance to wash the evidence away).

            Though as much as he sees Stiles’ friends, he never gets so much as a glimpse of the boy himself. Derek had spent a week trying to avoid him when he realizes that he didn’t even need to—Stiles is already doing that for him.

            But no punishment these teenage nightmares subjects him to compares to the punishment he’s inflicting on himself. He spends those three weeks holed up in his loft, sulking in his bed and refusing to leave except for when he has work. No amount of Boyd’s and Isaac’s encouragement and Erica’s threats can drag him out of this downward spiral of depression.

            Because, as he’s come to realize when he has to physically leave the room whenever he smells curly fries and every single time he turns to say something to the boy before remembering he isn’t there anymore, Derek is hopelessly in love with Stiles Stilinski. He doesn’t know for how long— if it’s a recent development, or if even it was from the very start—but he knows he’ll spend the rest of his life with those feelings. And he’s resigned himself to it because there’s nothing he can do with that piece of information. Even if Stiles is in love with him, Derek can’t take away the full college experience and the wild times of young adulthood away from him. He’d just be a ball and chain to him, and Stiles eventually will come to resent him for it.

            So basically, Derek is utterly fucked. As per usual.

            Surprisingly, it’s the Sheriff that invites Derek’s to his son’s eighteenth birthday party. He takes Derek into his office, only a few days before the big event, and, with a heavy sigh, tells him flatly, “At the park, ten o’clock, wear something formal yet casual.”

            Derek simply blinks at him, “Sir?”

            “Stiles’ party,” Stilinski clarifies with an eye roll, looking up at the ceiling like this conversation physically pains him, “Be there, please. Stiles has been a total wreck lately, and I’m sure it has something to do with… _whatever_ it was that you two had between each other. Am I right?”

            Derek stares down at his shoes and nods meekly.

            He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, explaining tersely, “Listen, Derek, I knew my son had a _crush_ on you, but…I didn’t realize until recently that maybe it wasn’t as unrequited as I first thought. Now, from what I can gather, I’d say you realized that your blossoming relationship with my _young_ son was getting out of hand and did the right thing. And you did. As long as Stiles is a minor— _under_ eighteen—you cannot date him.”

            “I’m aware of that, Sir.” Derek says, unsurprised at the Sheriff’s verdict as he turns to leave.

            “Hale, I don’t think you’re understanding me,” The Sheriff reiterates exasperatedly, “I’m saying _only when he turns eighteen,_ in the law of California’s eyes, can you date him. _So,_ I’m inviting you to his _eighteenth_ birthday party.”

            Derek jerks around, the meaning of his words widening his eyes, “Sir, are you saying—“

            Another pained sigh. Derek doesn’t know where he’s getting all this air, “ _Yes,_ I am.”

            “But,” Derek sputters, “Stiles is so young. I don’t want him to—to regret me later on down the road.”

            “Derek, that boy looks at you like you lit the sun and hung the moon,” The Sheriff says, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, “Even _now,_ with a broken heart, I don’t think he regrets you. And word of wisdom, Derek? Don’t focus on the future. It’ll do nobody a lick of good.”

            Derek smiles, saying softly, “Thanks, Sheriff.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” He says, shooing him away, “Now _go,_ I’m giving you the rest of the day off.”

            Derek leaves with nervousness quivering his hands and hope warming his heart.

* * *

            It’s a loud, crowded party with music and dancing and a bonfire and s’mores—and the birthday boy nowhere in sight. Derek spends the first hour after arrival looking for Stiles while dodging his friends that will undoubtedly try to kick his ass for showing up, invitation be damned.

            Finally, after no such luck, Derek growls in frustration and kicks at the dirt, scuffing up the dress shoes that Boyd had lent to him. _Maybe this is punishment,_ Derek thinks sullenly to himself, looking sadly at the wrapped gift in his hands, _for all I’ve done and all I’ve hurt—_

“He’s in the woods.” Scott McCall’s flat yet tired voice echoes in his ears, causing Derek to turn only to find Scott staring at him with his arms crossed and face pinched, “Just follow that trail, and it’ll lead you directly to him.”

            Derek nods and furrows his brow, asking, “He’s alone in there? At his own party?”

            “He didn’t want anyone who isn’t named Derek Hale around him tonight,” Scott replies with a bitter crooked smile, “Of course, he said this _before_ you rejected him and broke his heart, but I think the sentiment still stands.”

            “You’re not fighting me,” Derek remarks, tilting his head to the side, “I was expecting you to be more…aggressive.”

            “Stiles’ dad gave me a heads up,” Scott shrugs, “And I know you thought you were doing the right thing. Can’t be mad at you for having high morals.”

            Derek nods his thanks and turns to follow the trail into the woods, pausing only when Scott calls after him, “Hey, Derek?”

            “Yeah?”

            “He never shut up about you,” He tells him, and Derek’s heart skips a beat, “From the night you hauled our asses to ‘jail,’ he was crazy about you. Still is, to be honest. So just don’t,” He pauses, teeth toying with his bottom lip, “Don’t hurt him. Like, ever again. Because next time, me and the others—we won’t be as nice about it.”

            “Don’t worry, I won’t.” Derek says, throwing a glance over his shoulder, “And Scott? I’ve kinda been crazy about him ever since then, too.”

            Scott scoffs, “Well, _duh._ Everyone knows that but him.”

            _Well, I’m about to show him._

* * *

 

            Derek finds Stiles sitting on a rotted log with his shoulders slumped and head in his hands. He has to fight the strong urge to sweep the boy in his arms and kiss away the lines of misery that must be written on his face. Instead, he just stands there and watches him for awhile, too afraid of messing up his second chance by so much as looking at the kid the wrong way.

            Finally, Stiles just sighs and mumbles into his palm, “Scott, I love you, but unless you have a beer in your hand for me, I’d kindly ask you to hit the road.”

            Derek awkwardly clears his throat and jokes rather pathetically, “You’re lucky I’m off duty tonight.”

            And Stiles, God love him, literally _falls off the damn log_ at the very sound of Derek’s voice. Which, he has to admit, isn’t all that much of a confidence booster.

            Derek waits patiently as Stiles quickly stumbles to his feet, trying in vain to preserve any suaveness whatsoever (Derek can’t bring himself to inform Stiles he didn’t have any to begin with).

            _“So,”_ Stiles says coldly, but Derek can’t take him seriously with those dry leaves in his untamed hair, “You decide to come crawling back to me, huh?”

            Derek shrugs and takes a step closer, frowning as Stiles immediately takes a step back. The sting of that move hurts, more than a little bit.

            Derek licks his lips (Stiles glares at him for it, scowling as if to say _‘That’s cheating,’_ ) and decides to try talking, though he’s never been considered a man of words, “Stiles, I—I missed you.” He doesn’t mean to say it, doesn’t mean for that much sincerity and desperation to leak into the declaration.

            Stiles blinks—opens his mouth and…doesn’t say anything for at least two or three beats. But by then, he regains control of his mouth and confesses weakly, “I really didn’t expect you to open with that, to be honest. Kinda throws me off my game.”

            Derek smiles at his blunt honesty, shaking his head with more fondness than exasperation and continuing, “ _God,_ I missed you. I don’t think I truly realized the depth of it until I heard your voice again.”

            And suddenly, once Derek speaks, he just can’t stop, the words flowing from his mouth before he can realize what’s being said, “I missed so much about you, Stiles, it’s a wonder how I managed to live as long as I did without knowing you. I missed—I missed your smiles—all of them. From your crooked, taunting smirk to your soft, glowing smile that lights up your entire face. I missed your stupid jokes and quirky mannerisms and odd ramblings about nothing at all.” He steps forward and when Stiles doesn’t move back this time, takes a few more steps until they’re only a few inches apart.

            Derek reaches out and traces the curve of Stiles’ cheekbone with the tips of his fingers, “I missed _looking_ at you, and—and _talking_ to you. Stiles, _I missed you._ And I know that doesn’t make up for the things I said and did, but I just want you to know I’ve been miserable without you. And I don’t think that’ll change anytime soon if you choose to turn me down, but I won’t blame you.”

            Stiles half-heartedly pushes him away but pulls him back before he can feel the absence of the warmth of Derek’s body, “Stop being so— _forgivable._ I’m still mad at you. You—Did you even realize how much you hurt me, saying those awful things?”

            “I can’t imagine it, but I know how much it hurt just _saying_ them.” Derek admits, “And you don’t have to forgive me—not right away. All I’m asking you for right now is just another chance.”

            Stiles furrows his brow, “Like a do-over?”

            Derek rolls his eyes, a small smile toying at his lips, “Yes, Stiles, like a do-over.”

            Stiles tears his eyes from Derek’s and glances down at his lips, licking his own and saying, “I don’t know. You did some real emotional damage on me. I think I might need a little…convincing. You know, some _persuasion_.”

            Derek smirks and pretends to contemplate this before replying coyly, “I think I can do that.”

            Derek kisses him like he’s starving for it, all deep and filthy and desperate. Faintly, he remembers reading about a Greek myth in high school about a guy named _Tantulus_ and how he was forced by the Gods to stand in a pool of water beneath a fruit tree with low branches, with the fruit ever eluding his grasp, and the water always receding before he could take a drink (that’s where the word _tantalize_ came from). Kissing Stiles reminds him of this myth in the best sort of ways, because the longer Derek sucks and licks at Stiles’ lips to the point of them turning blood red, the more he can’t seem to get enough. The scariest part is that Derek doesn’t think he ever will.

            So when Stiles pulls back to pant labored breaths into Derek’s mouth, he nearly groans at the loss.

            “Just so you know,” The younger boy says in between pants, his eyes just as bright as his brutalized mouth, “I officially turned eighteen two hours ago, so if you wanna do a bit more, I’m like _totally_ up for all of that—“

            Momentarily breaking out of his animalistic daze, Derek rolls his eyes at his eagerness, assuring him fondly, “Thanks for the consent, but I think this will do for now.” Nodding with an embarrassed smile, Stiles kisses him again…

            Only to draw back a moment later to declare fervently, “Also, I’m sorry for the whole teenage attack thing my friends did. I mean, I wouldn’t say I _endorsed_ it or anything, but I did—“

            “Stiles,” Derek stresses, grasping both sides of Stiles’ head, “I don’t care. I deserved it.” He encases the boy in another bruising kiss, hoping to quieten his mind and, more importantly, his _mouth._

            “Just one more thing,” And okay, Derek thinks the universe is taking his self-comparison to _Tantalus_ a bit too serious, “Does this mean I’m the type of guy that kisses _before_ the first date? Because wow, that’s not a reputation I—“

 _“Stiles,”_ Derek repeats with an exasperated smile, “For a kiss to work, you gotta shut up.”

            Stiles dawns a pink hue and a sheepish dip of his head before catching Derek’s lips with his teeth and pulling him in again.

            Needless to say, Stiles was quiet for quite awhile.

**Author's Note:**

> Well? Did you like it? Tell me in the comments and/or by pressing the kudos button.


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